


The Scars of Another

by thecat_13145



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecat_13145/pseuds/thecat_13145
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the ways he had envisioned getting d`Artagnan in their bed; this had never entered his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scars of Another

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on bbcmusketeerskink  
> Not going to repost the prompt, as it would spoil the plot, but the original can be found at http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2194877#cmt2194877

Of all the ways he had envisioned getting d`Artagnan in their bed; this had never entered his head.

The lad lay curled up on top of the covers in the middle of the bed, passed out from exhaustion, tear tracks still on his cheeks.  
His brothers stood almost frozen like statues around the bed, as though it were a deathbed. Aramis was the first one to move, walking rapidly to the table grabbing a bottle, uncorking and replacing it with a thump and a loud curse as he realised it was empty.

On the bed, d`Artagnan tensed and whimpered slightly. Porthos frowned at Aramis and Athos moved silently to retrieve a fresh bottle, which he handed wordlessly to other man. Aramis managed a fraction of his normal smile and offered the bottle in his direction, but Athos shook his head.  
He didn’t want to, couldn’t get drunk tonight.

“My God” Aramis muttered, after a generous gulp. He put the bottle down on the table more carefully this time with a glance towards the bed, but d`Artagnan didn’t stir.

Porthos nodded slowly. “Knew he’d being hit.” He said softly. “But I never thought it was that bad.” He shook his head sadly.

Aramis continued to stare, shaking his head. “He loves him.” He said, “His father. He was prepared to kill you over his death,” He glanced at Athos and then back to the bed. “And that ….” Words failed him for a moment.

Athos shrugged. “Children love their parents.” He said softly. “Even cruel ones.”

If Porthos were not still in the state of shock that they all have being since they returned from the tavern, he might have given Athos that look, which means he’s hearing more truth in the words than Athos is comfortable with.

But since d`Artagnan’s arm caught Athos’s in the tavern, spilling the wine over him and the way the lad reacted…none of them have exactly being on their finest form. They were lucky that they were unknown in the tavern, else the story about d'Artagnan’s breakdown, his demand to know why they weren’t hitting him in a voice that was merely a note aware from hysteria, would be all over Paris by now. 

Aramis kept shaking his head, as though he felt Athos was being generous in his use of the word cruel. 

“Constance said the lad was always hanging around the kitchen, getting under her feet.” Porthos offered thoughtfully, “But I never thought…Madame Bonacieux is a handsome woman.”

“Jacques said he hung around the stables a lot at first.” Aramis offered. “But…I just thought it was the horses.” He paused and added as though to explain it. “The lad has a gift with horses.”

“Maybe they were the only ones to show him any kindness.” Porthos growled. Aramis just shook his head again.

“What about his mother?” He asked suddenly. “How could she…?”

“Died on the childbed.” Porthos said softly. At the other two expressions, he shrugged. “I asked him if there was anyone to worry about him at home. He said with his father dead, no.”

Aramis muttered another curse and Athos sighed. He expected something of the sort, but it’s still heartbreaking to confirm it’s true.

“The priest?” Aramis suggested half desperately and Athos almost laughed at that one. 

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” He says softly, remembering his father’s favorite expression. Aramis looks sick and Athos feels strangely sorry for him.

He can’t understand and neither can Porthos, not really. Growing up in a village where everyone knows everyone else’s business or at least their sins, or growing up in a city with people never too far from you, even if they would never do anything to help, makes it impossible to understand how things can work on an estate. How isolate and far from anyone you can be, how the only people who might see, might guess, even the priest, are too afraid to lose their positions to confront your father and so turn away. Maybe five hail Maries if you are lucky to your father for his behavior, but mostly everyone just looking away, confirming your belief that you deserve what is happening to you.

Porthos looked towards the bed again.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” He asked. Athos wants to laugh again because seriously they’re asking that? Aramis who wakes them up most nights with terrible dreams of Savoy and other battles. Himself, still baring the physical scars of his past, never using his true name if he can help it. And Porthos, who normal reaction to anything this emotional is to eat or almost smother it with mothering. Athos is actually impressed by his restraint so far.

“There’s no fever.” He said, as though he had misunderstood Porthos. “If he sleeps, he should wake up refreshed tomorrow.” He moved over to the chest at the foot of the bed to pull a blanket out, while Aramis reached over and pulled the boots, muffling a curse. 

“There are scars on the soles of his feet.”

Athos stopped himself from remarking that there were scars on the boy’s soul, but stopped Aramis as he reached to undress d`Artagnan further. 

“We don’t know that he has told us all.”

Aramis’s face demanded to know what could be worse than what they had heard this evening, but Porthos understood and nodded, carefully guiding Aramis away from the bed.

His own experiences, both in the Court of Miracles and the first time he had made the mistake of undressing Athos after he had passed out, would make him wary. The last thing the lad needed was to come around in an even greater panic than he already would.

“Can sleep in my room tonight.” Porthos offered gruffly, guiding Aramis out of the room. Athos shook his head at the unspoken question.

Tonight, he didn’t, couldn’t bear to have any near him, even those he trusted more than himself.

He leaned back in his chair as the others left.

Tonight had stirred up too many memories. Porthos and Aramis knew or guessed much of it, how could they not? But they placed the blame on Milady. Athos didn’t. Milady had simply continued, finished one might even say, what his father had started. She had left her own scars, at least as fierce as his father’s ones, but she was not entirely to blame for his reactions…

He got to his feet, suddenly unable to keep still, desperately needing to move.

There had being signs, signs enough for Porthos to pick up, signs he should have seen. D`Artagnan’s determination, almost expectation to work himself into exhaustion, the way he had pulled away more than the rest of them when Aramis stitched him up, the way the lad would alternate being extreme pickiness with his food one day and eating anything that was put in front of him like it was his last meal on another.

He realized with a start that his feet had taken him out of the room in to the corridor and that he could Aramis’s voice demanding desperately what they were going to do? And Porthos’s voice answering calmly, that they were going to treat d`Artagnan exactly the same, as though nothing had changed, because it hadn’t, not really. That they would keep offering their friendship and support and comfort until he felt worth to accept it.

“Just like with Athos.” The big man finished and Athos felt himself completely and surprisingly relax. 

Walking softly, he returned to their room.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

d`Artagnan was jerked awake as the sun slipped through the windows. He froze; his mind playing over what he could remember of last night, hoping it had just being a nightmare. But no, these were not his room in the Bonacieux’s household.

He swallowed, fighting his panic. They knew. They knew. He was worthless, weak, pathetic and…

A hand was placed firmly upon his shoulder, forcing him to lift his head. Looking up, he saw Athos’s blue eyes staring at him in a manner that made it plain that d`Artagnan was to keep his mouth shut and listen.

“I know you will not listen to me, or believe me.” Athos said, his voice soft but firm. “So I will keep repeating it until you are ready to believe it.” His eyes were staring intently at d`Artagnan. “What happened was not your fault and you did nothing to deserve what your father did to you.” The strange thing was that Athos actually sounded like he not only understood, but believe what he was saying was the truth. d`Artagnan continued to stare and then slowly and unconscious of the action, he nodded.

Athos leant back, apparently satisfied, as Porthos came in, dropping a mountain of pastries on to the table.

“The baker’s widow likes Aramis,” He said, slightly gruffly. “He is insisting we all share in the profits.”

Athos raised an eyebrow as the other man entered, holding a croissant in his hand. Aramis shrugged. “She has the lightest hand with pastry.” He turned and added “Constance asked me to remind you that your rent is due on the 14th and not to expect a reduction just because you’re spending more time with us than in your actual rooms.” 

Athos watched the confusion in the boy’s eyes. He remembered feeling like that. Like the world was turned on its head because nothing made sense. You had admitted that you were a worthless human being and yet these two could carry on as though nothing had changed, still viewing you as a friend, as a human being with value. It made no sense, but it was the beginning of the world starting to make sense.

He reached out and offered a pastry to d`Artagnan. “You’ll insult Madame de la Fonte if you don’t eat.” He said pleasantly.


End file.
